Hello, Privet! #1: Hello/Привет

Chapter 8

SOPHIE

"Sophie Rosenbaum?" asks a young woman with a pixie haircut, probably around my age. "I'm Willa Murphy, Mr. Donaldson's assistant. Mr. Donaldson will see you now."

In the circuitous hallway to John's office, I pass by a conference room where a gargantuan African American man the size of a sumo wrestler, in a red Adidas track suit, is crying on the shoulder of his agent/manager, who is noticeably a smaller and thin Caucasian man in comparison.

"Whoa. Is that Mac Duffy?" I say to Willa. "He's gotten, um, really fat."

"Yeah," Willa agrees. "He escaped from the fat farm again and now he has to go back and repeat his—um, sentence." Willa shrugs. "They're taking him back to Hilton Head this evening."

"Tough." Seven platinum albums, just as many Grammys, millions of dollars and international fame. The only problem is, he's extremely overweight. He had to be about four hundred pounds.

Through the glass-walled office with the massive oak desk, shelves of books, awards, signed baseballs and tennis balls, Barcelona chairs, I can see John on the phone, having a tense conversation with someone. He's wearing a suit, which unnerves me. I remember him as this tall and lanky guy. When he worked for Peter's campaign, he almost always just wore sweatshirts and jeans. Now, he's dressed as if he's going to attend the Oscars or something—a smart pinstripe suit which set off his dark skin, with sunglasses, indoors.

When John ends his phone call, he finally sees me, removes his sunglasses, and then shakes my hand.

"Sophie, how are you?" He hugs me, then he holds me away at arm's length, giving me a once over. Then he feigns shock. "Look at you." He smiles slowly, nodding his approval. "If I may just say so, and I mean this in a non-creepy, non-pervy, purely platonic way—you look damn fine, girl."

John has always been effusive with his compliments. "Oh, stop it," I say, rolling my eyes.

He shakes his head, still smiling. "How long ago was it—since the campaign—"

"I don't know. Maybe ten years ago?" In the year 1998, John was working for my stepfather when he was re-elected governor of Massachusetts.

"Well, I don't remember you looking like this. You look completely different."

"It's probably because I was eleven years old ten years ago?"

"Whoa. That long?"

I shrug.

"And how's your mother's charity?"

"Which one?" My mother is involved in all sorts of things from TB, polio, lymphoma, leukemia, breast cancer as well as women's rights, education for children in various third world countries, clean water for several countries in the African continent, and probably many other causes I don't know about.

"Breast cancer, I think? Her assistant Holloway called me."

"Oh, they're having a ball a few weeks from now."

"I think I was invited to that." He takes a seat behind his desk. "May I offer you some coffee? Some tea? How about juice? Milk?"

I'd rather have whiskey, but it seems inappropriate at the moment. "I'm okay."

"So you went to Harvard, huh?" He grins.

I shrug, choosing not to remind him that I've dropped out.

A young woman brings in a bottle of Perrier for John.

"I heard about your father. My condolences."